Late-night Ideas
by Wolvenflower
Summary: Sherlock is up way too late, John has decided, and confronts him about it. He's up because even if he wants to sleep, he has too many ideas that only come when he should be sleeping. John helps him clear his mind. T, but only barely.


**A/N: I write these things really late at night, so I'm sorry if there are some weird errors or if its just plain bad. To be honest, I don't even remember finishing this. This was inspired by my own mind's workings, at like 11:30 which is late for me, don't laugh. Anyway, hope it doesn't suck, enjoy.**

Sherlock was up late, as usual. However, John decided his was up too late, and it was his duty, as his flat mate, to get him to go to bed so he would stop that awful incessant plucking of his violin. Truly, it was impeding on John's ability to sleep, and he was getting quite literally tired of it. There really was no reason for Sherlock to be awake at such and ungodly hour, as they had no cases at the moment. Sherlock just enjoyed tormenting John, it seemed. So, the doctor decided to confront the detective about it. He tossed the duvet off himself and abondoned his bed; heading down the stairs. Sherlock was in his usual place, sprawled on the sofa, his violin tucked carefully under his arm, plucking the strings gently. There was a cup of tea on the table next to him. It had probably been cold for a while. John instinctively set about replacing it. He put the kettle on and sat down in his chair. Sherlock continued to show no reaction. Finally, John spoke.  
"Sherlock, why are you always awake at such hours? Why don't you just sleep? And don't say sleeping is boring or I'll trash every one of your experiments."  
"You wouldn't."  
"Wouldn't I, Sherlock?"  
Sherlock stopped plucking momentarily to scribble something down on a nearby notepad.  
"Sherlock, answer the question. What could you possibly be doing and why can't it wait until morning?"  
Sherlock sighed. "You think I wouldn't sleep if I could?"  
"Yes, that's exactly what I think."  
"Well, you thought wrong. As much as I'd like to sleep, I can't. I can't simply shut my brain off, John. It is too great an engine. Constant thought flow. Indefinitely productive. There are so many ideas yet to be had, John, can't you see?"  
"What I can't see is why this can't wait until a more decent hour."  
"My brain only works at 100% at night. It's not something I can control." He sighed.  
"I thought you could control everything. Like hunger, sickness and other very human things. Now you're telling me your brain has a mind of its own?" John scoffed.  
"Exactly what I'm telling you. As much as I'd like to sleep, my brain does not always allow for it."  
"How can I make your brain allow it? Smack you over the head with a crowbar might work." John added a little to cheerfully for Sherlock's taste. Thankfully, the tea kettle whistled before the tired soldier had a chance to test his idea."Or maybe tea might help." he added, getting up to fetch the tea.  
John returned to his chair with two cups of tea, replacing Sherlock's cold cup. The two sat in relative silence for a few moments, Sherlock had returned to softly plucking the strings. He stopped, and spoke almost shyly, or as shy as a Holmes is capable of being.  
"…Perhaps, John, my brain could take a little bit of convincing to sleep?"  
"Are you suggesting that _I_ convince your brain? Sorry, but when has your brain ever listened to me?"  
"It listens more than you know."  
They locked eyes for a moment, if either of them were more sentimental then would say they could see into each others' souls. But they weren't.  
"Just come to bed, Sherlock. At the very least _try_ to sleep, please?"  
He sighed and gave in. Doctor's orders, after all.  
Taking his hand, John led him up the stairs and they curled under the duvet together. John snuggled into Sherlock's chest and looked up at him. Blue eyes met verdigris, and before Sherlock could say anything, his lips were stopped by John's.  
And suddenly, his mind was wonderfully, blissfully, and brilliantly blank. Everything, even time, came to a halt, and his thoughts were completely void of anything except _John_ and how his lips were softer than they looked and unbelievably warm and John even smelled warm and soft. There was only John.  
John broke away gently and whispered, "Convinced yet?"  
"For tonight," Sherlock mumbled as he drifted off, his mind more free than it had been in years.


End file.
